Good Butterbeers Just Don't Go Bad
by booksprite
Summary: Rosmerta the bartender has never been looked into. She's always been tossed aside as a "minor" character, and left to die. But what if she was a squib? What if she was Sirius's lover? What if she was so much more than a good butterbeer?
1. Chapter One

Good Butterbeers Just Don't Go Bad 

By: Booksprite

A note: I really love minor characters, as they're not completely filled in, and you have no idea of their past nor future, giving you a lot of room to create. So, I decided to do a character that hasn't been written about a lot (in fact, this may be the first on the 'net): Rosmerta—yeah, the bartender at The Three Broomsticks. This is in her Point of View, and it takes place in chapter ten of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. 

  
***  
  


I sighed, leaning against the bar, trying to serve a rowdy bunch of warlocks who wanted a Hell of a lot more than a butterbeer, no matter what they said, I could tell a fiendish glint in a male's eyes from fifty miles away; as I've seen that shine so many times when they look at me. 

     I began cleaning out a glass of mead that an earlier customer – from Hogwarts I thought – had bought, and hadn't drunk it all. The wizards grinned devilishly, asking me if I was 'up for a friendly round of _Quidditch_? You know, get the old quaffle through the hoop?' Disgusted, I'd ignored them, and wanted to scream when one yelled out to the 'Quidditch' guy: "Go, Burney! She wants you!" 

     I turned away silently, though all the while thinking, _I want him like I want to meet You-Know-Who_. Even in my thoughts, I couldn't say his name, couldn't bear the frustration of it all. Mentally slapping the lot of the rowdy wizards, I handed them their drinks (a half scotch-half butterbeer, a butterbeer, a red currant rum, and something else that I couldn't remember, so I just gave him water spiked slightly with Vodka, sure that the wizards were already going to have a hangover in the morning, and were too drunk to tell that difference anyway).

     Then, irritated at their flirty, annoying ways, I warned them, "The dementors will be out soon, you know, I hear that they haven't had a decent meal…" I let the sentence end with their imaginations running wild. I smirked, as I saw the group exchange gazes, and all nod hurriedly, quickly exiting the Three Broomsticks. I bent down to wipe the counter clean of whatever horrid germs people like those might carry, as I saw three Gryffindor students conversing happily and exclaiming about all the different places you could visit in Hogsmeade, outside the frosty windows, outside my doors. 

     I smiled inwardly at their happy faces, and I once again wondered what it would be like to have been born with my rightful blood—my _wizard_ blood. I was, for all my efforts, a squib: an up and down, can't-do-a-spark-of-magic squib. My entire family had been pureblood wizards and witches, and they'd been astounded and ashamed of their newest descendent. So, they dumped me on old Great Uncle Thomas Ross and hoped I'd stay as far away from them as heavenly possible. 

     Great Uncle Thomas (or Uncle Tommy-boy, as he told me to call him) was a great person, full of laughter, and you never went a day without hearing a great new joke he brought in from town, but, truthfully, he was a bit mad, though, I always piped up in his defense, so is Dumbledore and numerous other great wizards of our time. Uncle Tommy-boy was an oddball, for sure, he wanted, for his life's purpose, to be to build an extravagant bar in a nice little village—preferably near a joke shop and sweet shop, as jokes and sweets were Uncle Tommy-boy's favorite things in life, besides a nice, well-earned hangover every once in a while.

     So, Uncle Tommy-boy had been taken with Hogsmeade, a quaint little place, a wizards' only place, with a starting out joke shop (Zonko's) and a nice sweet shop (Honeydukes). When I turned five, I was sent to live with the 'disgrace of the family' as many of the elders referred to him as. I'd been welcomed warmly into his bar, yet also loaded down with work, as Uncle Tommy-boy didn't believe in wasting any spare hands. I'd been fascinated by the wizarding world, amazed by the grand castle that was called Hogwarts, and even more by its students … especially Sirius Black.

     I snorted, returning my thoughts and labor towards the dirty bar in front of me, _don't think about Sirius. Don't. Just, Don't. _I told myself, moving the rag I was cleaning the bar with quicker and quicker, with more fury, than I had before. 

     "Hullo, Madam Rosmerta," chirped a voice, and I looked up to find one of the three happy students that I'd seen through the frosty windows, "three butterbeers please?" I scurried about, trying to find three mugs, but my mind was elsewhere, as I realized what had been bugging me.

     "Weasley boy, are you?" I inquired, then slammed the three mugs on the table firmly, "look just like Bill, you do…" I muttered, pouring the butterbeer in the mugs, then, looking up, I noticed the boy's ears had gone red, and I questioned, "Bit cold out there, is it? Not that it's surprising, being so cold and all…" I handed the foaming tankards to him, and chirped out happily, "Happy Christmas!" as I watched him slowly descend into the crowd of people who were scurrying about, trying to get warm. 

     I leaned onto the counter, watched the Weasley Boy and his two friends, deeply enjoy the butterbeers, drinking long, happy gulps of the stuff, as they experienced its warmth. _Which_, I thought, _reminds me, I'm a bit nippy myself_, I searched briefly for a mug, before filling it halfway with scotch, then the other half with butterbeer. _Half-scotch, half-butterbeer, the closest to Heaven we mortals can get while we're alive_, I recalled Uncle Tommy-boy saying, merrily, eyes twinkling, as he handed me a half-scotch, half-butterbeer, even though I was only seven.

     A chilly wind blasted through the Three Broomsticks, as the door opened, and the people who opened it were getting rather nasty and go-bugger-off looks from several of the customers who were now clutching their cloaks, jackets, and other garments closely to their bodies, and choking down their drinks, then scurrying out, surely ready to get home to the nice warm fires that awaited them. 

     I peered over my drink and noticed to faces I'd greeted more often than most others; Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, accompanied by Hagrid and the Mister of Magic; Cornelius Fudge. All were wrapped in thick heavy, wool things that showed only their cherry-red faces, all cold from the winter snow. I giggled a bit, looking down at my own attire: turquoise robes, a few silver bracelets, and turquoise high-heeled shoes that clacked when I walked. 

     I smiled, remembering all the times, that, when McGonagall and various other teachers had come into the bar, complaining about the latest pranks that the Marauders had pulled, how they'd blown up the Slytherin Prefects' bathroom, how they'd transfigured on of the green houses into glass elephants, resulting in the loss of several plants that year. And how when I finally met the Marauders, who were just a year older than I, I'd been fascinated by the way _their_ side of the story differed from the teachers, especially Sirius's side, which always made him out to be the poor, innocent victim of some inescapable evil that he had to face, but was always framed by to make it seem like his fault. 

     Snapped out of my train of thought, I saw the Christmas tree levitate slightly, but I made no move to reprimand the person who'd moved it; I'd made a sort of pact with the student body of Hogwarts: They didn't damage anything, I wouldn't rat them out; even if they were underage and wanted a bit of mead or wine (though, I told them it was all alcohol, I usually made it three-fourths water and one-fourth alcohol). 

     McGonagall sat down, huffing slightly, and red in her cheeks, as she stated, simply, "We've already placed our orders with Tildy." Then, clasping her hands on the table, she waited quietly for the rest of her party. Tildy was the person who made the drinks for people with alcoholic preferences (though, I kept my own stash of scotch a secret). I watched as Flitwick, Hagrid, and Fudge took their seats, though I was quit astonished that the Minister was here. 

     Tildy motioned for me to come into the back of the Three Broomsticks to retrieve the new order. Tildy was a pudgy, almost-but-not-quite fat woman in her early fifties or late forties (I never asked her actual age, as it was impolite) with tawny curls framing her puffy face, and freckles covering most of her face, arms, and legs (though I only knew so because Tildy favored Muggle miniskirts in dress). Her pudgy hand had guided me from my first day at the Three Broomsticks, and she had been the bartender for the bar in the beginning, though now she kept to herself, locked up in the back, making tequilas and mulled mead. 

     Allowing my heels to clack as loud as they could, I made my way to the door that led to the back of the pub. Pushing the door open, I found Tildy holding a tray with four drinks on it, smiling happily, a tipsy smile that meant she'd sneaked a few too many tequilas as she worked.

     "Gggreeattt m-m-mea-mead tha-that i-is," her speech was slurred, as she handed me the tray, almost letting it fall on the floor, but I caught it in time to prevent a much unwanted accident. I sighed, balancing the tray in one arm, and making my way out of the drunken woman's lair. It was slightly heavy, and one of the tankards was huge, filled with four pints of some mulled mead. Just the look of all that alcohol made me feel the aftereffects of it, the unbearable headache of a hangover, and sometimes, when I'd gotten particularly wild, a nauseous feeling that kept me in the bathroom and out of work for a day or two. 

     I found the four adults deep in conversation when I returned, and I was eager to join in, as many times you could squeeze gossip and rumors out of the teachers at Hogwarts after a few too many meads (especially Hagrid, the gamekeeper). Putting myself in front of them, right in view, I started off the drinks, which, after twenty-seven years of working in a bar, I could tell what they were just by the look of them.

     "A small gillywater—" I started, knowing it was McGonagall's, as the gillywater was just barely an alcoholic drink, it was water with a third of rum and gin mixed in, not near enough to get you intoxicated, especially with the affects-condensing potion that made up another third of the gillywater, insuring the drinker would only be a bit tipsy (if any) and no hangover would occur (and if one, not a bad one).

     "Mine," said McGonagall, and I grinned, as the way she said it was like a little child claiming her new toy _mine_, then going into a raving fit if it actually _wasn't _theirs, but someone else's.

     "Four pints of mulled mead—" I knew it was Hagrid's, after all the times he'd ordered the exact same thing and gotten a hangover that I knew lasted for days on end, as sometimes he couldn't even make it back to his hut on the edge of Hogwarts, and spent the night in our bathrooms. 

     "Ta, Rosmerta," said Hagrid, making a swipe for the tankard before I could hand it to him, and taking a large, healthy gulp of it. It's clients like Hagrid that keep me in business. 

     "A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella—" Flitwick's, I thought, certain. Flitwick was the only person I knew who _demanded_ an umbrella in his drink, and wouldn't drink it otherwise, which was bad for business, so Tildy always had a bag or two full of umbrellas ready for whenever Flitwick decided to drop in. 

     "Mmm!" Flitwick, motioned towards himself, and smacked his lips thirstily when I handed him the drink, then downing as much as Hagrid when he'd taken a drink.

     "So, you'll be the red currant rum, Minister," I said, handing the drink to him, and noticing his clothes, and I disgustedly thought: _Who wears lime-green any more? That is SO last season… and pinstripes?_ I shook my head, reminding myself never to make sure I didn't say such thoughts aloud, especially when they were about the Minister of Magic. 

     Fudge looked up, and greeted me, "Thank you, Rosmerta, m'dear, lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one yourself, won't you? Come and join us …" I grabbed my half-scotch, half-butterbeer and took the seat to the right of Flitwick, who was gulping down his cherry syrup and soda at an alarmingly quick rate.

     Not wanting to appear impolite, even to someone as badly dressed as Fudge, I smiled my best, most innocent smile and said, "Well, thank you very much, Minister," it almost made me sick how sugary sweet my voice sounded as I talked to my elders, but they always thought I was sincere when I talked to them, and it worked out nicely.

     I watched as Fudge scanned me up and down, and I knew he was pondering how a squib could be so pretty, without any spells or potions to help them (though I did use a wrinkle prevention potion that Tildy brewed every morning and an anti-graying hair and anti-balding potion for hair). 

     A straining silence had settled over the group, so, in a vague attempt to liven the lot up, I inquired, "So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?" oh, sure, I knew, but polite conversation is hard and the current events at that moment all consisted of Sirius Black.

     Fudge turned in his chair uncertainly, as if checking for anyone who might be listening, not that I blamed him, "What else, m'dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?" well, yes, I thought, but I dismissed it as mindless gossip and dribble, though I had the sinking suspicion it was the truth. 

     "I did hear a rumor," I said, taking a drink of my half-scotch half-butterbeer to let it warm me. 

     I saw McGonagall shoot Hagrid an agitated look, before snapping, "Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?" Hagrid nearly cowered under the severe woman's gaze—not that anyone else I knew would've done any different under her fierce stare.

     Ignoring the now bickering two, I asked what I'd been itching to ask for the time since I'd seen the Minister enter my humble bar, "Do you think Black's still in the are?" it came out as a whisper, though in truth I wanted to scream it. The last person I wanted to meet was Sirius, after he'd swooned me in his last years as a free man, and then gone and shown his true colors—and dark mark. 

     "I'm sure of it," stated Fudge, shortly, and my heart sank, as I thought, _don't you dare come to this pub, Black, don't you dare, a lying murderer isn't welcome here any more than they would be any where else—you aren't welcome here any more than anywhere else!_

     I shivered slightly, as I commented, "You that the dementors have searched the whole village twice?" I asked, shaking at the very mention of the wretched things, I didn't like the dementors any more than I like Black, maybe even less, and it was ruining my business, "Scared all my customers away…" I snorted, "It's very bad for business, Minister," I crossed my arms, trying to appear intimidating. 

     "Rosmerta," why did he always say my name when he talked to me? Is he afraid I'll forget who I am? Squibs can't do magic, but they certainly are _not _idiots, "m'dear," and the damn _m'dear_s were getting on my last nerve, "I don't like them any more than you do," ah, he was uncomfortable, squirming in his seat slightly, looking like a repulsive bug, "Necessary precaution … unfortunate, but there you are … I've just met some of them. They're in a fury against Dumbledore—he won't let them inside the castle grounds," _Go Dumbledore! Whoot!_ I cheered in my mind.

     "I should think not," McGonagall had put on her most disapproving face, one she used to save for the Marauders and their wrongdoings, but the Marauders were not near as horrible as dementors (except for Black, now), "How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?"

     "Hear, hear!" squealed Flitwick, nearly falling off his seat, from downing all his cherry syrup and soda. 

     Fudge seemed unfazed by these protests, as he began to talk again, and I focused my attention on him, still wondering how anyone could be blind enough to wear a lime-green bowler at sixty- or fifty-something years old, "All the same," he said, now standing upright, "they are here to protect you from something worse," and to think that when Black went to Hogwarts he would've thought of that as a compliment, "we all know what Black's capable of…" 

     I sighed, thinking back to the days when Sirius would sneak off Hogwarts grounds and bring me a rose or a pack of chocolate from Honeydukes, something small, yet meaningful, and then he'd talk me into skipping work for a day so we could trod about Hogsmeade and talk, or snog, or just whatever we felt like. "Do you know," I started, still reminiscing about the old Hogwarts times when Sirius would visit, "I still have trouble believing it. Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I'd have thought," probably because we dated for three solid years, then became engaged, "I mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts," and serenaded me with roses and chocolate and long, moonlit walks through Hogsmeade, "If you'd told me then what he was going to become, I'd have said you'd had too much mead," and been totally in denial.

     Fudge crossed his arms, and looked at me, "You don't know the half of it, Rosmerta," The damn name again,  "the worst he did isn't widely known," meaning only he and his Grand Poobah friends and the teachers at Hogwarts knew. Lord, they knew some juicy secrets, I swear.

     "The worst?" I questioned, prompting him, "Worse than murdering all those poor people you mean?" so many wasted lives… what could be worse than that? I couldn't think of a damn thing that was worse than randomly killing a handful of people, Muggles, no less, who knew nothing of the Dark Lord.

     Fudge nodded, "I certainly do."

     I shook my head, "I can't believe that. What could possibly be worse?"

    "You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta," said McGonagall, "Do you remember who his best friend was?"

     Of course, I sighed, I remembered my boyfriend's best friend, I had to pry James off of Sirius if I wanted to have him to myself for a little while, "Naturally," I said, laughing softly, "Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here—ooh, they used to make me laugh"- and swoon, I thought –"Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!" I took another swig of my quickly diminishing drink, while waiting for someone else to comment. 

     I furrowed my brow, sure that after I'd said my last sentence, I'd heard something fall on the floor. I did a quick scan on the ground and decided that I must be hearing things. 

     McGonagall thumped her drink onto the bar, "Precisely," she nodded, "Black and Potter. Ring leaders of their little gang"- right, I thought, along with Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew-"Both very bright, of course—exceptionally bright, in fact—but I don't think we've ever had such a pair of troublemakers." I inwardly laughed, what Sirius would've given to hear McGonagall say _that_.

     Hagrid laughed gruffly, "I dunno, Fred and George Weasley could give 'em a run for their money." Yes, I thought, I remembered seeing the two a few times in the bar, always looking at the drinks I handed them oddly, and saying the words "explosion", "Percy" and "Prefects' bathroom" a lot.

     Flitwick, almost falling on off his stool, still, piped in, "You'd have thought Black and Potter were brothers!" actually, at first, I had… "Inseparable!" 

     Fudge nodded roughly, narrowing his eyes, "Of course they were," he snorted, "Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed when they left school. Black was the best man when James married Lily. Then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him." And I, was supposed to be Harry's godmother, but no more, because Black had to go and screw it all up.

     I sighed, and then whispered, "Because Black turned out to be in league with You-Know-Who?" I asked, now sitting straighter, wanting to be ready for whatever they said.

     Fudge sighed, shaking his head, "Worse than even that, m'dear," he suddenly dropped his voice to a whisper, "not many people are aware the Potters knew You-Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off, and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised them to go into hiding. Well, of course, You-Know-Who wasn't an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore told them that their best chance was the Fidelius Charm."

     I wanted to scream, as a squib, I only knew what a few spells were, and one of those was _not _the Fidelius Charm, so, giving in, I asked: "How does that work?" 

     Flitwick, who even after intoxication was passionate about his field of work (charms) and cleared his throat, before responding, "An immensely complex charm,"_ aren't they all? _I wondered, absent-mindedly. "Involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living souls"- _can souls _not_ be living? _–"The information is hidden inside the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find—unless, of course the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could search the village where Lily and James were staying for years and never find them, not even if he had his nose pressed against their sitting room window!" _Cool_, I thought, _very, very, very cool_. Except, of course, when the rat that was the Secret-Keeper was your fiancé…

     I sighed, asking the question that was bursting, after all I didn't know for sure if Sirius was their Secret-Keeper, "So, Black was the Potters' Secret-Keeper?" I asked, shaking me head, and yanking my drink up from the bar, then taking a large swig of it, before slamming it back on the counter.

     McGonagall nodded solemnly and began to talk in a faraway voice of someone who was reminiscing of the past, "Naturally, James Potter told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell where they were that Black was planning to go into hiding himself…" she trailed off, her eyes gaining a clouded look, "and yet, Dumbledore remained worried"- _I wonder if he's a seer…_I pondered, _he's always right, it's kind of creepy…_ -"I remember him offering to be the Potters' Secret-Keeper himself."

     I gasped, "He suspected Black?" I queried. 

     McGonagall narrowed her eyes, then looked around for a moment, as if Black might be lurking somewhere inconspicuously in the pub, before speaking again, "He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements. Indeed, he had suspected for some time that someone on our side had turned traitor and was passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who." She shook her head in disgust, as if still in disbelief.

     I sighed, "But James Potter insisted on using Black?" _The gullible git,_ I thought, bitterly, taking another sip of my quickly emptying drink. 

     Fudge nodded sadly, "He did, and then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed—"

     I already knew what came next. "Black betrayed them?" I breathed, now staring at the empty glass in front of me, wondering if there was really another ending to this story I'd heard so often.

***

 That's it for Part I, as I didn't want to put all of it in one chapter, it would just be overwhelming to you, the reader. Oh, and the reason I always thought of Rosmerta as a squib (I didn't even realize that the BOOKS didn't state she was until my friend said "Why do you think Rosmerta's a squib) is because she didn't know what the Fidelius Charm was. Yes, a lousy thing to base a theory off of, but that's the way my brain works, so deal. 


	2. Chapter Two

Good Butterbeers Just Don't Go Bad

~Booksprite

A/N: Here's the second part! If you didn't read the note in the FIRST chapter then here it is: 

Disclaimer: I own nothing of this story, with the exception of the pairing and the idea of Rosmerta being a squib. But I did not own Minister Fudge, McGonagall (thank God), Flitwick, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Rosmerta, or Cho Chang. I _do_ own these people (and this only here because the list is getting so large):  
  
_Uncle Tommy-boy, _

_Chang Mei, _

_Chang Chun,_

_Chang Ning, _

_Chang Ling,_

_Chang Ming,_

_Chang Kun,_

_Chang Lin,_

_Chang Yin,_

_Chang Xiang,_

_Chang Shui,_

_And Cousin Robert_

They're all straight out of my twisted mind so you can't claim them as yours, so :P 

Now, on to our feature presentation :D always wanted to say that

***

I grasped the half-butterbeer half-scotch, and brought it to my lips, only to find the glass was empty. I sighed, reluctantly placing the empty mug on the counter, as I looked at the other people that were gathered around Fudge, awaiting his answer, though we all knew it. Our mouths were slightly open in wonder of when Fudge would next speak. 

     Fudge's eyes had closed, as he was clearly reliving the things he'd seen, the things he'd heard, and also, perhaps, just to be dramatic, as he started to talk, "He did indeed." Was all I needed to hear, as I stared at the mug, thinking: _Why did I think this would be different? Why?_ I leaned back, almost letting the mug crash to the floor, but plopping it back on the counter before I had The Symptoms of Denial again: dizziness, weeping, downing alcoholic drinks one after another to drown my sorrows. I straitened my back when I realized I wasn't the least dizzy, perhaps The Symptoms were lessening, as I heard the information so often. Turning my thoughts back to Fudge, I listened again, though still wary of any Symptom that might suddenly occur. "Black was tired of his double-agent role, he was ready to declare his support openly for You-Know-Who"- the same questions gnawed at my mind, _How do you know what he was thinking? How?! How in Hell do you know he was a double agent?_ Because of facts, I told myself, because of proof. But still, I could only lessen the questions, not make them vanish completely –"And he seems to have planned this for the moment of the Potters' death. But, as we all know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry Potter. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black, had shown his try colors as a traitor. He had no choice but to run for it—"

     Hagrid let out a growl, and began to yell, so that the entirety of the pub could hear his raves, "Filthy, stinkin' turncoat!" most of the populace of The Three Broomsticks had gone quiet, and the few members of our grave conversation we blown back slightly, due to Hagrid's momentous roars of anger. When Hagrid slammed his drink on the bar, my half-butterbeer half-scotch teetered slightly, before rolling onto the floor with a sound _clunk._

McGonagall sent Hagrid yet another glare, before snapping, "_Shh!_" and bringing her gillywater to her lips, shaking her head disapprovingly, and narrowing her eyes at him as if that would stop the large man when he was on a roll.

     Of course, it didn't, as Hagrid restarted his rants, now in a yell that shook the small pub, and I clutched my stool, for fear of falling of, as McGonagall crossed her arms across her chest, disdained that her efforts to silence the burly man hadn't worked, "I met him! I musta bin the last ter see him before he killed all them people!" Hagrid was stomping his foot to punctuate every sentence's end, "It was me that rescued Harry from Lily an' James's house after they got killed!" My heart wrenched horribly, as I felt the deliberate need to drink all of the tequilas Tildy had stashed back in her lair, and the dizzy feeling swamped my mind, as Hagrid continued his screaming, "Jus' got him outta the ruins, poor little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an' his parents dead … an' Sirius Black turns up on that flyin' motorbike"- oh, I still remembered flying around on it, Sirius clad in a leather jacket, not even wearing a helmet, which his Mother always nagged him about –"he used ter ride. Never occurred ter me what he was doin' there. I didn' know if he'd bin Lily and James's Secret-Keeper. Thought he'd jus' heard the news o' You-Know-Who's attack an' come ter see what he could do. White an' shakin', he was. An' yeh know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN' TRAITOR!" The last sentence made me fall off my chair with a _thump_ and Flitwick was so surprised, he let go of his drink, and it crashed to the floor, breaking into pieces.

     McGonagall, who was the only one who kept her calm during Hagrid's roars, scolded him, cheeks blazing red with embarrassment, as all of the pub was looking at our solitary group with a what-oddballs expression on their faces, "Hagrid, please!" she snapped, narrowing her fine, pencil-thin eyebrows in agitation, "Keep your voice down!" she wagged a finger at him, though Hagrid seemed deaf to her pleas.

     Trying desperately to regain my balance, as people were beginning to look at me, in my falling position, and point, making crude comments. I wobbled up, and placed one hand on the bar, and the other on my stool for support, as I sat back down, wishing Hagrid would quit yelling or all the mugs in the pub would break like Flitwick's had.

     Hagrid still didn't hush, allowing the entire bar to gawk at us, the people sitting with the yelling, probably mad man, "How was I ter knew he wasn' upset abou' Lily an' James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou'! An' then he says, 'Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I'm his godfather, I'll look after him—'Ha! But I'd had me orders from Dumbledore, an' I told Black no, Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an' uncle's. Black argued, but in the end he gave in"- _That was one of the many, many things that doesn't fit in the story_, I thought, _Sirius never gave in. _Never_. He just wasn't like that, he was a stubborn asshole, and he wouldn't have any way other than his own-_"Told me ter take his motorbike"- _and that too, Sirius loved that motorbike, almost as much as he loved—well, almost as much as I _thought_ he loved me_ –"'I won't need it any more,' he says."

     "I shoulda' known there was somethin' fishy goin' on then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin' it to me for"- _But then again, in a way he'd already given me up and the damn bike when he let You-Know-Who engrave the Dark Mark on his arm_ –"Why wouldn' he need it anymore? Fact was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he'd bin the Potter's Secret-Keeper. Black Knew he was goin' ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a matter o' hours before the Ministry was after him"- _And that's another thing, _I sighed_, Sirius didn't run. He never ran. Unless he didn't do it. He'd take up full responsibility for his own pranks, but when someone else did something that he was blamed for, he swore up and down he didn't do it._

     "_But what if I'd given Harry to him, eh?_" Hagrid questioned, looking at all of us with a straight, even gaze (though he wobbled a bit in his seat, as over half his drink was gone). We all knew what would've happened if Hagrid had handed Harry over: Harry would be dead. My should-have-been-godson would've been dead. But, in Hagrid's better judgment, he hadn't handed Harry over. And Harry was alive—for now. But he might not stay that way, as Sirius was loose, and evidently rabid, "I bet he'd've pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes' friends' son!" I tucked my hands into my armpits, thinking _his Godson_ and the thought sent shivers up my back, as I turned away from the group, afraid I was going to start panicking again, reliving the events that had so altered my life, "But when a wizard goes ter the Dark Side"- but if he had gone _why didn't I know? Why? Yes,_ I remembered, he'd been detached, but the times were getting harder, of course –"there's nothin' and no one that matters to 'em anymore."

     _Not even me_, I thought, wrapping my arms around my body, though no one seemed to notice my now fearful state, as I tried to find safety in myself, hugging myself, the way I always did when the story was retold, as the dangerous Symptoms settled in, as I felt dizzy, wavering nervously on my stool. I felt sick, and wanted to race to the restroom, but I tried to regain my senses, though still dizzy and somewhat sick, I squeaked (with satisfaction, mostly from being able to speak at all): "But he didn't manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic caught up with him the next day!" And sentenced him to life in Azkaban.

     Fudge shook his head, sadly, his mouthing pursing as if he had something bitter in his mouth as he spoke, "Alas if only we had," he took a large gulp of his mead, before speaking again, "It was not we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew—another of the Potters' friends"- _Peter? _I wondered, _If I remember, Peter was a fearful little scrounging rat who hid behind James, Remus, and Sirius_. But then again, I was somewhat biased because the first I met Peter, he had been making jokes about how easy I looked ("She looks so easy if I winked at her, she'd drop on the ground and pull off her robes and let me shag her") –"Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters' Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself." _Which_, I thought, _doesn't make sense either, as Peter wasn't the brave type; he was the hide-behind type._

     I shook my head, before asking: "Pettigrew … that fat little boy who was always tagging around after them at Hogwarts?" _And making jokes about how "easy" some of the girls were_, I thought mentally.

     McGonagall nodded, sighing, reminiscing once again, "Hero-worshipped Black and Potter," _possibly_, I thought, _because he had no real talent himself_, "Never quite in their league, talent-wise"- _Never _QUITE _in their league_? I snorted, _if I remember correctly, Peter could do a damn spark of magic without Potter and Black. Why, if his family hadn't been so influential I bet he would've been branded a squib_ –"I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine how I—how I regret that now …" a clouded look made her seem even distant that normal.

     Fudge clucked his tongue sympathetically, and shook his head sadly, then kindly saying, " There now, Minerva, Pettigrew died a hero's death"- but still, I just couldn't think of Peter as a hero, I guess when someone calls you easy you don't want to like them even though you should –"Eyewitnesses—Muggles, of course, we wiped their memories later—told us how Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing 'Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?' And then he went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker. Blew Pettigrew into smithereens …" And that was the final piece of the puzzle that doesn't make sense: Sirius was queasy when it came to blood and gore. He tried to hide it, but he flinched at even the slightest sight of blood. He would never have intentionally caused something like that_. But then again_, I chided myself_, he_ did _plan that escapade with Snape._ I shook my head, Sirius had always defied all logic, so I had no idea why I was using his personality quirks to contradict the solid facts that had been drilled into my head for years.

     I saw McGonagall grab a handkerchief from her robe's pocket, then blow her nose, clearly the chilly weather was giving the Hogwarts Professor a cold, I mused, even though she always tried to give off a stern, harsh, almost immortal appearance, "Stupid boy… foolish boy …" _wow_, I thought, _how polite you are, McGonagall_. McGonagall took a drink of her gillywater, looking down into its depths, "he was always hopeless at dueling … should have left it to the Ministry …" And let Black wander freely? 

     Hagrid stomped his foot, baring his teeth, clutching his fists, obviously in another mood to rave at the top of his lungs, "I tell yeh, if I'd got ter Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn't've messed around with wands—I'd've ripped him limb—from—limb" the last three words were separated by Hagrid's fists connecting with the table with a _slam_. A small part of me was silently thankful that it had been Peter and not Hagrid who'd met up with Sirius. I mentally slapped myself: Sirius might've been my fiancé for a while, but he was a murderer! I should be wishing Hagrid _had_ met up with Sirius … I shook my head, _maybe Sirius's mind isn't the only one that defies logic._

     Fudge narrowed his eyes at Hagrid, and giving him a sharp look, before scolding him like a child who just spilled juice on the carpet, "You don't know what you're talking about, Hagrid. Nobody but trained Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad"- I blinked, before guessing that the 'hit wizards squad' must be another, fancier name for 'aurors' –"would have stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes"- _why do they use such goddamn long names?_ I wondered, then thought_ Guess I'd be 'magical alcoholic beverages supervisor'_, chuckling slightly, I returned my attention to Fudge –"and I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people. I—I will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him … a heap of bloodstained robes and a few—a few fragments—"

     I clamped my hand over my mouth, wishing Fudge hadn't been so damn descriptive, I felt my stomach twisting and writhing just thinking about the sight of all the blood and gore—all the bodies littering the streets and "she's so easy" Peter diminished to a few fragments and bloody robes. A few tears of sympathy for the poor people that had died and for Peter welled in my eyes, as I grabbed the handkerchief that was tucked safely away in my pocket. I blew my nose at the same time as four other people, though I didn't look back to see who I'd blown my nose with. Dabbing at my eyes, I tried to compose myself.

     Fudge shook his head, as if trying to rid his mind of the memories that had just been unearthed by my questions, "Well, there you have it, Rosmerta," he took a gulp of his drink, probably trying to rid it of the same bad taste that filled my mouth, "Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I think was of some comfort to his poor mother"- a mental picture of Peter's mother popped into my mind, last I'd seen her, she was plump and round, always slumping and slouching, with long, stringy blonde hair down to her hips, with her hand always clamped around a bag of chips or some other snack, and a beer in the other hand, or the beer in her mouth. Very flatly, Peter's mum wasn't what I would call 'poor' I knew a lot of things she was, but 'poor' just didn't seem to fit her –"Black's been in Azkaban ever since."

     I shook my head, I'd heard the story so many tons of times that I couldn't count them, and every time it ended with Sirius's sentence to Azkaban for the rest of his life. Like that was the climax of the story, or even a definite ending, which, now that Black had escaped, it certainly wasn't the ending. 

     I sighed, and asked, "is it true he's mad, Minister?" it seemed impossible, witty Sirius, charming Sirius: insane. Mad. Bonkers—or, as Uncle Tommy-boy always said 'a few beers short of a hangover'. I sat back on my stool, and leaned against the bar, staring at the peachy-pink designs that were on the counter, and waiting for Fudge to answer.

     Fudge was quiet for a few more moments, before answering slowly, "I wish I could say that he was. I certainly believe his master's defeat unhinged him for a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man—cruel … pointless. Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban"- I shivered slightly, thinking that maybe being head honcho of the British wizarding world wasn't all cushy and comfortable all the time, like I'd often suspected –"You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark; there's no sense in them … but I was shocked at how _normal _Black seemed"- I raised an eyebrow at this: Sirius had never been exactly 'normal' in all my years of knowing him, before Azkaban –"He spoke rationally to me. It was unnerving. You'd have thought he was merely bored—asked if I'd finished with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword"- _that is a bloody lie_, I thought, _Sirius hated crosswords or anything you had to sit still to do, even reading_-"Yes, I was astounded at how little affect the dementors seemed to be having on him – and he was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day and night."

     I felt a small twinge of pity for Sirius, having dementors up his butt at all hours of the day, but then, remembering the numerous murders he'd committed, I took back any sympathy that I may have had. _You just can't feel sympathy towards a murderer_, I told myself, _you just_ cannot _unless you're a nutcase. And you aren't. I think_. 

     I shook my head, as I silently mulled over the latest information I'd been given, savoring it, wanting to use it to convince myself later that I didn't feel anything towards Sirius—except hate and absolute disgust. A question gnawed at my brain, as terror slowly crept into my heart, "But what do you think he's broken out to do?" I asked, probably looking bewildered and confused, as I often did when I asked questions, "Good gracious, Minister, he isn't trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?" _No_, I thought, _even Sirius isn't daring enough to do that with the entire wizarding world on his tail—right?_

    Fudge cleared his throat, and avoided my eyes, as if looking into them would make my words become reality, "I daresay that is hi – er – eventual plan," he took one last sip out of his almost-empty tankard and then resumed speaking. _Just like Uncle Tommy-boy_, I mused, wondering what Fudge would do if I compared him to my redneck great uncle, _but Uncle Tommy-boy never evaded your eyes, he always looked straight into them, as if daring you to contradict whatever he was saying_, "But we hope to catch Black long before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and friendless"- _he makes him sound like a shy schoolboy_, I reflected –"but give him back his most devoted servant"- I almost fell back in surprise, sure, it was common knowledge that Sirius was a Death Eater, but You-Know-Who's _most valuable servant_ seemed a bit extreme-"and I shudder to think how quickly he'll rise again …"

     After Fudge quit talking, I watched as McGonagall stood up, sitting her gillywater down with a _chink_ and, in a voice that a mother uses with her child, slightly-scolding, slightly-reminding she began to talk, while making for the door, "You know, Cornelius"- _They're on first name basis?_ I thought, and then laughed, _Brings kinky thoughts to mind_ –"if you're dining with the headmaster"- _and she's _not_ on first name basis with Dumbledore? Brings even more kinky thoughts to mind_ –"we'd better head back up to the castle."

     One by one the members of our small, gossiping group left the table, thanking me for the drinks, complimenting me on how well business was doing even with the dementors running about, and promises of coming back soon (Hagrid, probably meaning he'd be back for more mulled mead in an hour or two). Finally, still mulling over the gossip I'd just gotten, I went back behind the counter, and was faced with all the customers that had been waiting while I was chatting with the little group.    

     It took quite a while to get all the orders filled, since the group must've been talking for over an hour or two, but I did after fifty minutes, I made another half-scotch half-butterbeer and leaned against the counter to enjoy and savor the taste, while reading the newest copy of _Witch Weekly_ (which had a very interesting article on how to use Muggle makeup to enhance your look, as Muggle cosmetics were rarely used in the wizarding world, and it would make you look distinguished—or so the article said).

     Another _swoosh_ of wind made me look up from my magazine (the article I was currently reading entitled _The Dark Hottie: Tom Riddle Before He Became Voldemort_) and I found myself looking up into Remus Lupin's golden eyes that I'd always thought made him look like a dog, a Husky in particular. He was wearing the familiar faded robes that he'd been so famous for in Hogwarts, and toting a suitcase with the peeling, golden letter _Remus J. Lupin_ on it. He wasn't wearing a coat, only a light cloak that was as tattered and patched as his robes.

     All in all, he looked almost the same as he had when I'd last seen him at twenty, with exception of a few premature gray hairs scattered about in his hair. He smiled softly, before sitting down on the stool directly in front of where I'd been leaning on the counter. 

     I cleared my throat, as I reached down for the old bottle of scotch that was nestled under my counter. My hand touched its cold glass and I pulled it out from under there, and I let the glass _chink_ against the wood, as I looked at Remus, expectantly.

     He gave me an annoyed look, before saying, while shaking his head, "You know I don't drink alcohol." I inwardly grinned, remembering how Uncle Tommy-boy looked when Remus had stated that, it had been during the time they were in Hogwarts, sixth year Christmas I believe, the Uncle Tommy-boy had said '_God bless that brave, ignorant sonny, but it will do him damn good when he finds out what he's missing'_ before offering the boy yet another tankard of Gin and Rum, which he still refused. 

     I shook my head, "wimp," I teased him, sticking my tongue out, before pouring myself a glass of plain scotch, not near as good as it was mixed with butterbeer, but I was afraid Remus would take any chance I gave him to drift back off into the snow-ridden world outside the Three Broomsticks, "how's it going?" I asked mildly, taking a sip of the scotch I'd just poured.

     He shrugged, "So-so," he replied, being just as mysterious as I remembered him being when I had first met the other Marauders and him. He was always trying to meld into his background, always trying to remain unnoticed, and never giving you a direct answer to anything that involved himself.

     I took another sip, analyzing his expression and position. I'd gotten to know Remus quite well through Sirius, and, like all the people I was good friends with, I could often tell his or her mood by their posture and facial expression. Remus wore a tired, cloudy look upon his face, his golden eyes looking more distant and faraway than I remembered. He was sitting in with his feet dangling above the floor (the stools have always been quite tall, because Uncle Tommy-boy said "That's what makes a real bar!") and both hands resting on the counter, fingers interwoven, and he kept moving as if slightly nervous, glancing from side to side, shifting position every few seconds. 

     "Good so-so, or bad so-so?" I questioned, still gazing at him through the glass I was drinking out of.

     He blinked; looked up at me, probably wondering why I was staring so intently at him, "Okay so-so," he murmured, turning himself away from me, a direct thing that said "DO NOT SPEAK TO ME". But I didn't listen.

     "Never pictured on of the Marauders as a teacher," I commented, probably seeming dodgy to Remus, but then again, most people did – Especially Sirius's girlfriends, as Sirius normally found wild, exotic girls fun for a 'one-nighter'.

     He nodded, shallowly, and I could almost see his mood fluttering over him: a dark cape that loomed above his head, reminding him that Sirius had just escaped from Azkaban and it was (in Remus's ever blameful mind) his fault.

     Something had happened; I knew it, either that or everything had just crushed the old Remus Lupin I'd known so well, the one who laughed when I told Peter off for calming me "easy", the one who planned pranks with Sirius, the one who was always thoughtful about everything. I sighed, trying to remember the name of his old girlfriend… _Ella_? No. _Cleo?_ No, that was one of Sirius's earlier one who'd cussed me out more times than I could count after Sirius broke up with her for me. _Mei?_ _Yes, _I thought triumphantly, _that was her. She was a little Asian girl with big, big walnut eyes who kept mostly to herself.  _

I took a sip of my glass, staring at it, deeply, and "How's Mei?" I questioned, looking up at Remus, who was now nervously fiddling with his wand. He stopped fiddling abruptly, and I noticed a slouch develop in his posture before he answered.

     "Married. To Chang Xiang, remember him? He was in Slytherin," there was a note of disgust in his voice that surprised me, Remus normally covered his feeling up well, "Didn't you notice when she dropped out in sixth year with him?" I blinked, no, not really, I laughed, remembering how Uncle Tommy-boy always said, '_Dammit, girl, you just can't put two and two together, can ya'?'_, "They have ten children now. We keep up a fair bit. Her daughters are Cho, the oldest girl – have you seen her? She's a Ravenclaw in fourth year – and Shui – she's in second year, year under Harry… she's a Hufflepuff I think. Her dad was damn mad, said Mei, when Shui got into Hufflepuff – and Ming, Ling, and Ning – triplets. They're coming to Hogwarts in two years. Mei says I'll know them by their hyper activeness," he chuckled slightly, "Lin is the oldest boy—Cho's twin, so he's in the same year as Cho, surely the Head Boy, he's in Ravenclaw as well, he's not made anything below brilliant grades – even Snape can't dare give him anything below perfect grades. Mei has quite high expectations for the boy; says he'll be the next Minister of Magic."

     He was no longer slouching, but standing up straight, looking at me, as he spoke of his old girlfriend and her numerous children, "Then there's Kun, he's only three right now. The other three are Jin, Chun, and Yin. Yin's the only girl out of those three. She's eight, Jin's one, and Chun's five."

     He ended with a sigh, and slouched again, making me scowl, I _hate_ it when people use such bad posture. I crossed my arms, contemplating Remus J. Lupin, whom I'd always thought of as the most perfect male I knew. But now he seemed envious of this Chang Xiang. Of what he had: Mei, and her large number of offspring. I looked out the frosty windows, thinking; _it seems like everything – or anyone – perfect is always revealed to be a normal person – or thing – when you pull away their mask._

     "May I have some butterbeer?" questioned Remus, pointing to the large tankards that were lined up in army-like rows, as if standing at attention, I almost asked 'any scotch?' but, as if reading my mind, he said, "No alcohol, please."

     "You don't know what you're missing—!" I chirped, in a singsong voice; as I fetched a tankard, pulling it out of its army rows, and pouring butterbeer into the now wonderful smelling tankard, I took a sharp whiff myself, wishing I had more butterbeer, enough to spend on _me_.

     He took a nice, long gulp of the warm liquid, looking as if he was drinking the drink of the Heavens, then, he slammed it down firmly, before starting _his_ line of inquisitions.

     "How's Great Uncle Thomas (Remus always insisted on calling him by his proper, birth-given name instead of Tommy-boy)? Still with us?" he took another drink, but this time his eyes were directed up at me.

     I felt frozen, as if time itself had entered a stage of hibernation and I was the only one still awake. Uncle Tommy-boy had died a year after Sirius went to Azkaban, swearing on his deathbed that he'd haunt Sirius because '_that damn player for breaking my niece's heart! I'll hound him till the day he dies!_' the worst thing was that he died approximately fifteen minutes after saying those words. I prayed it didn't become true. I didn't want my Uncle Tommy-boy to live a wretched afterlife as a miserable ghost who hounded Sirius to the ends of the Earth (not that I doubted Uncle Tommy-boy would do it if he became a ghost). I sighed, feebly answering; "He's no longer with us…" Remus nodded understandingly.

     "Same with Mum and Father," he said, shaking his head, "past two years ago," he sighed, "took a while to get used to life without them." I nodded, solemnly, wishing one of us would change the subject; it was making me uneasy.

     "How's Robert? Cousin twice removed? He was a right nice fellow, bit big-headed, but then again, so was most of your family," I snorted, laughing at Remus's last remark, and he quickly added, "minus Great Uncle Thomas of course," then, when I gave him a stern glare, he added, "you too, of course!" he smiled brightly at me and offered me back the now empty tankard.

     "Robert's getting on in the years, he's now fifty-something," I said, absent-mindedly, as I let my mouth curl at the edges, as sure sign I was feeling happy that I was only thirty-two.

     Remus nodded, "… ah …" he said, now fiddling with the edges of his tattered and stained robes, "how's it been after… Sirius?" he asked me, bluntly.

     I nearly dropped the tankard, which I was trying to clean now, in all my shock, no one had ever directly asked the question, most beat around the bush, asking _how's it going? How's life in general? So, how's your love life coming?_ But never directly asking The Question. 

     I stared out the frosty window, wondering how I was supposed to answer that. Was I supposed to spill out my soul to Remus, tell him that it hadn't been the same, that I missed him every damn minute of the day? Was I supposed to lie and tell him that I'd forgotten all about Sirius? What?

     I sat my tankard down on the bar, now beginning to realize how strained and almost tangible the silence that stood between Remus and I was. I took a breath of air, "It hasn't been the … same, you know?" I asked, glancing back at him, and I saw he was listening intently, "It's like… someone upped and threw my world upside-down and now I have to go back and recollect the broken pieces to make a puzzle that has too many missing pieces to truly be solved."

     Remus looked at me, his slight puzzlement showing in his eyes, "And what puzzle is that?" he inquired, sweeping his arm around the room, "The puzzle of your life?"

     I shook my head, uncertainly, wondering how such wise yet hard to understand had come from my mouth, "No, The puzzle of James's death. And Lily's, as well. It's all too mysterious to be real, as if someone's playing us for fools, laughing as we trip and fall and believe in all the things that they want us to. But then it turns out only to be an illusion. A covering of the truth that everyone has tried so hard to uncover." I took a breath, "Look at the glitches, the little things that are imperfect—" I was stopped abruptly by Remus, who, for the first time, I'd ever seen him, was raging.

     His voice had collected the steady, calmness of a man about to explode, about to be driven over the edge into the deep, deep canyon of his own grief and fury, "Sirius killed them. Sirius killed Peter. It doesn't matter what—he killed them—there's proof—"

     I shook my head, furious at him, Remus, open-minded, forever forgiving Remus, for not seeing the imperfections of it all: "The system the Ministry uses can fail!" I bellowed, glaring at him, hoping against hope I was right, hoping against the world Sirius was innocent, "It has happened before! He wasn't even given a Goddamn trial!" I raged, stomping my feet, tears trailing down my cheeks; I wanted so bad to believe Sirius was innocent. I wanted so badly for him to be the perfect prankster I'd once known. 

     "You always made him out to be perfect," said Remus, coldly, getting up to leave, "You always made him out to be some perfect little angel who sometimes got devilish and played pranks. But the real Sirius wasn't like that at all. The real Sirius tried to commit murder at sixteen, using me as his murder weapon. You never saw some of the trash he dated. You never saw anything that was real. You just saw your perfect Sirius, who could do no wrong in your eyes." He exhaled sharply, now towards the door, "And that, Rosmerta, is where you failed."

     I was stunned, as Remus walked out of the door, leaving my pub, never giving it a backwards glance. But his words echoed tauntingly in my ears, words so unlike the Remus I had once known, the quiet yet cheerful shy boy who tagged along with Sirius and James. The handsome boy who had dated Mei, then been dumped for someone from Mei's own county: Xiang.. _You just saw your perfect Sirius, who could do no wrong in your eyes, and that, Rosmerta is where you failed._ I bit my lip, wiping away the tears from my earlier crying session, wishing everyone would quit staring at me.

     Wishing Sirius was back.

     I was tempted to laugh, thinking how out of kin and blood this was, being so emotional.

     After all, aren't Malfoys supposed to be heartless bastards who worship You-Know-Who?

***

A/N: Surprise ending! Muahahahaha! Rosmerta is a _Malfoy_? Well, in this fic she is :D Please review, oh, and there is going to be the last and final Part Three coming out to a fanfiction place near you, soon! 

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	3. Chapter Three

Good Butterbeers Just Don't Go Bad

By: Booksprite

~

It was a hellish day in June – and that was the understatement of the millennia. Possibly the biggest understatement since when I heard my cousin Lucius telling his girlfriend Charna that "hell no, he hadn't been snogging with Narcissia behind her back… oh, okay, okay, so he'd kissed her just _once_…" Basically, it was like being in an inferno that just seemed to be getting hotter and hotter. The Three Broomsticks was stuffy with humidity, and I don't know how many air-cooling charms Tildy performed on the room; it could have been a perfect replica of Hell in all it's vile and scorching glory. 

     To make matters that much worse, the idiotic IWC was having a meeting today, and hearing them rant and rave like psychos about how their relationships were so poor, was making me think over Sirius and my relationship, not something I particularly liked to do. Especially since just yesterday Tildy had unearthed a long forgotten (and for a damn good reason) photo album that had been left to me from Lily. 

     Lily: the popular, the photographer, the soon-to-be Potter. Everything about Lily seemed to start with a _P_, especially Lily: the perfect. I could still remember the first day I'd met Lily, and to be honest, I had absolutely hated her from that moment on. She had the same straight, shiny auburn hair as me, same pale complexion, same aggravating tallness, and the same sprinkle of freckles across her petite nose. Needless to say, it was a bit unnerving. She'd been polite and all, but there was something about her that just seemed to radiate… pity. Those big, emerald depths seemed to look out at me as Rosmerta: helpless, defenseless, innocent, frail, powerless squib. There were a lot of things that made people wonder if I was truly a blood-relative of the Malfoys, one the things that didn't was my ego. Because, suffice to say, it was _large_. I'd never forgiven Lily for that pitying look, not ever. I was full of egoistic tendencies, something that had annoyed Sirius to no end, and despising Lily was just one of them. Of course, I'd hated myself when I found out she was dead. Hated myself to no end for disliking such a genuinely nice person. Hated myself for never even giving her a chance. When the album had been sent to me, I had wondered if this was Lily's way of getting me back for all my glares and sharp comments. I had wondered if perhaps she was up in heaven, laughing her head off, as she saw the look of anger at myself, pity for her, anger at the Dark Lord. And annoyance at Lily's sister Petunia who had mailed it to me. 

     My reminiscences of Lily and my hatred of her were disrupted by Tabitha Hawkins. "… Rosmerta, don't you agree?" I had a good guess of what Tabitha was ranting about: men. Tabitha Hawkins raved about men more than some people breathed. She ranted about how her husband was having an affair with some idiot named Mindy, about how she'd discovered her husband's secret stash of PlayWizard, of how she'd found some of Mindy's clothes in the bedroom, and about how her husband was such an idiotic slob.  It was obvious that the only idea Tabitha had of men was her husband. Who wasn't exactly the greatest bloke in the world – and that was putting it in a polite way. Tabitha had, in fact, gotten her friends together and made the IWC – Independent Witches' Club (or the Idiot Witches' Club, as I preferred to call them). The IWC was really just an excuse for all these married women to rant and rave about how miserable their lives were, with their miserable, idiotic, good-for-nothing husbands. Once a month, I had to serve them butterbeers, tequilas, mulled meads, and scotch while they griped about how ignorant and idiotic their husbands were. Simply, those days were Hell. And when it was already blazing outside, with the Three Broomsticks stuffy with humidity, I wasn't in a great mood. An absolute replica of hell. All Tabitha needed was a little red pitchfork she could wield and a tail, with little horns behind her ears.

     There was a tone of anger in Tabitha Hawkins's voice as she snapped, "Rosmerta! Don't you agree men are utter wastes of life? That the world would be much better without them?" Tabitha narrowed her eyes at me, as if by not answering her, I'd disobeyed whatever male-hating deity she prayed to. Her chubby arms were crossed over her large chest, her round face contorted into a scowl. Her plump lips were pursed out into an almost comical try at a frown. Her nails were painted neon pink, I noticed, and her robes were pink with orange stars on them. _Not the most fashion-wise fifty-year-old I've ever met_, I reflected. 

     But increasingly, I became aware not of her manner of dress, but of her big, brown eyes which were currently making contact with my own blue ones. Her hairy eyebrows, narrowed, she repeated her question, "Don't you _agree_?" her tone was clipped, brief, and I instantly knew I was trying her patience, not a wise thing to do, with a woman as powerful as Tabitha Hawkins. I'd heard she'd been Head Girl in her year – that was long before I'd come to work at the pub – and had been one of the most powerful witches at the entire school at the time. There were even rumors that she was a leader in the Order of Merlin; a team of wizards and witches compromised of the best, and most powerful wizards in the entire world. I only knew that Dumbledore was a leader in it, for sure, but I didn't know any other members; let alone leaders. There had been gossip that Lily, Sirius, and James had been considered for the group, but the Order had decided against it, saying that it would put James and Lily in too much spotlight, and Sirius… well, they decided against Sirius because they took one look at his school records. He held – and still did, to the best of my knowledge – the record for detentions a student's entire term at Hogwarts. 

     Meeting the glaring woman's gaze, I nodded slightly, just a quick bob of the head, a curt 'yes, I agree, now leave me alone before I scream' nod. She looked me up and down, as if searching for some quirk that wasn't quite right, some oddity that she could pick at, like a taunting school child. Apparently she found it, as she turned briskly away from me and began to mutter to the bleached-blonde head next to her.

     Her whispers were deliberately loud; she wanted me to hear that was evident enough. "Do you notice," she said, head bowed, but voice plenty loud, "that she doesn't have a _wand_ in her pocket? Don't you find that the least bit odd?" The woman she was speaking to nodded looking me up and down with an analyzing look on her face. Her look then became disgusted, as she searched the pockets of my robes where a wand might've been…. Could've been, should have been. 

     Before I could even register what the hell was going on, some twenty woman were glaring at me like a landowner would glare at a roach. They had the same disgusted, get-it-out-of-my-sight-right-this-instant look on their faces. It was obvious that they'd figured out I was a squib. And therefore, I was a rat and they were the petite rat-hating women who jumped up on the table screaming like a bunch of idiots. Only, unlike the petite rat-hating women, the IWC wasn't afraid. They just wanted me out of their sight and into whatever hole I'd crawled out of. Of course, there was also the problem that very few of these women were petite; most of them had to weigh at least two hundred and fifty pounds. 

     They exchanged haughty glances at each other, glancing back at me every few moments. Trying my best to ignore them, I turned back to the table I was trying to clean. Or was supposed to be trying to clean. It's hard to clean when you keep hearing mutterings about yourself behind your back and you were having to gather every bit of your self-esteem and control not to slap each of those woman in the jaw and force them out of the restaurant while yelling 'don't come back you hags!' But of course I didn't. It's bad for business to run your customers out while you're having an adrenaline rush. 

     "A _squib_!" hissed one of them, her voice was hushed, "poor, poor dear…" she whispered. That only escalated my anger. I could take the mockery, the teasing, the gossip, but the _pity_, the _pity_ was what I couldn't stand. What I _wouldn't_ stand. My hands tightened around the rag I was wiping the table off of, as I heard about ten more variations versions of the 'poor, poor dear'. I wanted to run. Scream. Flail my arms wildly, and chase the IWC out of the bar forever. But most of all, I wanted to be a little eight-year-old again, who could begin crying and get picked up by Uncle Tommy-boy, as he took me into his brawny arms and told me everything would be okay. That the people who pitied me would never come back 

     But I wasn't eight. And Uncle Tommy-boy couldn't come and save me anymore. And the IWC would be back; they came every month. And everything _wouldn't_ be okay.  

     I could remember a time when I still believed that someone would come and rescue me every time I fell. I could remember when Sirius had sworn that he'd always protect me. But now no one was here to soften my fall, or suddenly rescue me from a dragon. I was the unconventional damsel in distress with about three dragons up her ass, and no white knight in sight. 

    Now, there was no one to turn to, not with the IWC chattering about me right behind me, not with their eyes boring into the back of my head, not with me just sitting there, taking every hit as it came. The table might have well been brand new, now, it's oak shined with no crumb in sight. 

     I looked at my hands. The texture of the rag was imprinted on them. But I knew in a few moments, my hands would become like they always were, without the rough texture of the rag on them. It occurred to me that I was a rag. I was textured, and used for manual labor, and simple, unlike the human hand. I made imprints on people's lives but eventually I faded, and sat, waiting for the next person to use me. 

     And a memory came rushing forth, one that I didn't think I'd ever forget.

_Tildy looked at me, and chuckled, tut-tutting me as I poured butterbeer into a tankard, but I was clumsy, and it spilled, the contents gushing onto the counter. She was holding a rag. The same rag that she always had, tucked into her pocket, safe and neat and perfect. It was navy blue, and cool to the touch and never left any mess unattended. She bent forward, her curly hair hiding her face as she did so. Tildy was telling me that I should be more careful, but she didn't seem to care, gently cleaning the mess up. I was six, and had only been living with Tildy and Uncle Tommy-boy for a year, but I already loved my new place in life. The place where I wasn't snapped at for doing something wrong, where I wasn't glared at when I wasn't up to par with my family's expectations. _

_     "Rosmerta, dear, hand Tildy that jug of butterbeer," she said, looking up from the mess for a moment, and motioning at the jug. I picked it up and tottered on my small feet, the jug was heavy. She smiled crookedly at me, taking it and thanking me._

_     I looked at the jug, on the side was printed a date: _**23 2 1904**_. "Tildy, what's that date mean?" I asked, pointing at the bold black letters. _

_     She paid me no more than a sideways glance, before answering, "It means that that jug of butterbeer was made on the twenty-third of the second month in nineteen oh-four."_  _Tildy tucked the rag away, in her robe pocket and picked me up, sitting me on her knee. She smiled at me, "Any more questions for Tildy to answer?" she questioned, moving some stray strands of red hair out of my face. _

_     "Yeah, if the butterbeer was made… thirty… forty…" I furrowed my brow, trying to calculate how long ago 1904 had been. "Long time ago," I finally said, "Then why is it we still give it to the butterbeer-drinkers? Won't it go bad?" _

_     "Because good butterbeers don't go bad."_

_     "They don't?" I asked, looking sideways at her, as if her face might give away the answer to if she was telling the truth or not. She smiled bemusedly, nodding "They don't."_

_     I laughed, "What about me? Do I go bad?"_

_     "Yes, you go bad, all humans go bad and… go to a nicer place," she said soothingly, trying not to get me scared of what would happen after life. Death. At five I probably didn't have any concept of the heartache and pain that could come from death. _

 _    "Well, I wanna be butterbeer then. Then I won't go bad," I said brightly, hopping off her lap, thinking that that would end all my problems. If I was a butterbeer I wouldn't go bad: Immortality in the most ridiculous sense, "What else doesn't go bad?" I wondered, setting out to get the broom and do my daily chore of sweeping the bar. _

_     "Not a lot of things," she said softly, "some types of love. If it's real. If the two are ready to die for each other."_

_     "Like the beautiful Princess and charming Prince," I said simply, thinking that it was as easy as that. That I was the Princess and some day a Prince Charming would come and save me. _

_     "No," I heard her mutter, "not like the beautiful Princess and charming Prince," and I didn't say anything to that, though I don't know why. I'd always been inquisitive but the voice Tildy had said it in, the soft loneliness made em want to hug her. As if now I knew some tragedy that had happened in her life, as if now I knew the secret to Tildy Baker, the only person who'd ever been a sort of mother figure to me._     

I stared off out the window near the table I was cleaning, the IWC had filed out an hour ago, casting glances at my that seemed to be labeled **PITY** in big, huge letters. I never had learned the secret of Tildy's. The long lost love or whatnot that I was so positive she'd had. It was hard to imagine Tildy with anyone, like some lovesick teenager, that just didn't fit in with the picture of Tildy. She wasn't beautiful or glamorous or even pretty, she was a person with pride, a person who you just knew had held her own in the world for years and was still striving to make something of her life, and forget the past. 

     And in a way, now that gave she and I something in common, a point that we both knew and hated of our lives.  She had her lost love and I had Sirius Black who had done worse than abandon me, but had abandoned his life as a whole and turned it over to the Dark Lord. 

    I looked around; the pub was empty of everyone but myself. All the regulars had presumably left for the summer, off to visit small nephews and nieces and daughters and sons and other relatives, tell them what a grand place Hogsmeade was, a Drunk's Paradise. 'And, oh, I just heard from Tim who heard from Dorothy who heard from Leonard that the bartender there is a squib! Now lets all celebrate our wizardry and pray we never have a wretched squib in the family!'

     "Rosmerta, dear? Close up, will you? We need to talk," I nodded curtly, guessing that the 'talk' would be the usual. How we were losing customers or gaining them and how we could use such-and-such to our advantage for a savings' account when Tildy dies and I'm left alone in the world, without even the bar, because it's "dangerous" for a squib to own something in the wizarding world.

     Turning the sign over to the 'closed' side, I locked the door, and turned around, surprised at seeing Tildy already sitting in a booth. Apparition. Yet another thing I couldn't do because I was 'born wrong' as many people said. 

     She smiled at me, sadly, motioning to the seat, as if she could read my mind and now regretted how she'd reminded me of my fate. "Rosmerta," she said, slowly, as if she were choking on the words, "there was a…" she trailed off, eyes gaining a clouded look as she looked at me, "letter… for you." Tildy got up, ending abruptly, "Yes, yes, a … a letter," her eyes were shining and read, as if she had been crying. "From… Sirius." She nodded, decisively, her voice sounding as if she wasn't breathing, "yes, from Sirius." 

     That was when it hit me. Her words had been going in one-ear-and-out-the-other. They'd had no meaning, I hadn't been listening, just heard the calming, normal sound of her voice, and all of a sudden, I wanted to scream. I wanted to dance. _"Yes, yes, a … a letter, from … Sirius."_ It reminded me of when I was nineteen, and sat by the window every day, waiting for his owl, Evangelos, to come flying through the window, carrying a letter than ensure me Sirius hadn't died. It was the same feeling, fluffy and light and glad and everything it should be when you've gotten a letter from the guy you've been waiting on for thirteen years. But the familiar and oh-so-welcome feeling crashed, as I remembered exactly _why_ I hadn't seen him for the last thirteen years.

_It was cold for October, chilly and showing that soon, with November, snow would fall and all of Hogsmeade would be caked in white snow. I was sitting at a table, The Snitch, a wizarding magazine dedicated to sports, politics, and news, lain in front of me. The headlines on the cover didn't involve Quidditch or politics, like it usually did. There were huge letters, above a picture of Sirius (the same charming one of him I had in my room, on the vanity at the time). The letters read: _Sirius Black: On the Run. _This copy of The Snitch had been brought to Uncle Tommy-boy the day before. Only today had he had the heart to hand it to me, muttering something about "that bastard boy". _

_     I was a lot of things. Scared because Sirius had been the one normal thing in my life. That had always been what I'd strived for when I was younger: the normality that so many people hated. I just wanted to be average, not a squib, not someone exiled from their fucking evil family because they were "born wrong". Normal people were in romantic relationships. Normal people had children and had a spouse they loved. And the only thing that I had ever asked of God was to be _normal_! But did he even give me that? Did he even just let be a common witch who went to Hogwarts and had a boyfriend. Dammit: no! I had to be a squib. I had to be vanquished from my own _family_ because of it. It's ironic, it is. For my first four years of life, I had everything I wanted, I had toys and money and houselves tripping over themselves to do my bidding. But when I was five, my parents – Madelyn and Charles Malfoy – noticed I couldn't do any magic. And as soon as it was proven beyond doubt (which was quite hard with my family, which seemed blissfully ignorant of the very idea a Malfoy could be a squib) I was shipped off and forgotten. Just like that. 'Oh, you're a squib. Filthy, vile thing you are. Bye, I'll never see you again because you aren't normal. You're a freak' was about the most a family member had ever said to me after my squib-hood had been revealed. After all that, I just wanted something average. Something stable. So, maybe Sirius was a party animal, he never forgot who his girlfriend was. Sirius would never have cheated on me. And that's why he was stable, he was stable because he loved me and that love was something nice and normal rather than the hectic, oddball days I normally experienced. And a life without Sirius was a life without the one normal thing I so deserved. It wasn't fair, I was scared and angry: How was I going to live through adulthood without Sirius? How could he leave me alone? _

_     I wanted to kill him. Wring his filthy neck, feel his life pass through my hands, while he screamed for mercy and I would just laugh. But I also wanted him to be there, and wrap his arms around me, and tell me everything was okay. Which, of course, it wasn't, not that I would have cared. When Sirius said it was okay, it was like God himself decreed it so, in my mind. _

_     When I'd read the article it had all been a shock. It had been so idiotic… so ludicrous… so stupid. Like an idiot plot-twist the author puts in just to jostle you and remind you that the world isn't the way you think it is. I couldn't cry. I just felt numb. And angry and sad. Numb. Completely numb, just unfeeling, with vague thoughts and emotions drifting in and out my brain. Anger. I was angry, but it was a numb sort of anger, the sort where you couldn't believe the cause and therefore couldn't be affected. Numbness filled my mind, along with words of denial. It couldn't be true. Sirius wouldn't do such a thing. And my ears were ringing and everything was so damn wrong, and I was running. _

_     All of a sudden, I was just up. I was running, forcing people out of the way. Couldn't stay there. Cramped, needed air, couldn't breathe, I was suffocating! I pushed the doors open, heard gasps as I ran out into the world outside. I wanted out. Just out. Anywhere, but the places that held so many memories. Everywhere I looked, I could place a date, a picture, a scene. Honeydukes: Sirius in his seventh year, buying me chocolates, with yellow roses. It had been Valentines Day. I'd been enraged because I thought Sirius had forgotten me. He hadn't and had taken me out on the town. With Sirius, Hogsmeade was always different from the way in normally seemed. Magical, as if him being there gave it some hidden meaning, like every place had a touch of magic that even I could see and control. But now that Sirius was gone, I knew I'd never see that magic again. _

_     But none of that seemed to matter as I ran. All that mattered was that I had to breathe, had to breathe, God, I was suffocating, heaving in breaths, couldn't stand it… had to get out… had to get out… had to breathe. I wanted to scream, I wanted to scream and yell and throw up and do so many things that my brain was swirling with emotions and images and thoughts, as I ran. And ran. And ran straight into a tree. I ran into it headfirst, my forehead taking the majority of the pain. It hurt. But it was like I was watching from a bubble, immune to the actions of this person, this Rosmerta-look-alike who had just ran into a tree. I knew it had to hurt. But I couldn't actually feel the pain. Just the anger, and the numbness. The numbness was becoming more and more evident, it was like now the bubble was thickening, it's walls huge and bulky and defensive and keeping me inside it, a prisoner of a bubble. And now this Rosmerta-imposter was crying her eyes out, weeping and choking and screaming, like no twenty-year-old who had any dignity whatsoever should do. She was throwing a temper-tantrum, pounding her fists on the ground, weeping. She was pitiful. And all I could think about was the fact that I wasn't there; I was wrapped up in a safe bubble, away from all the evils of the world._

Tildy had placed a rough piece of parchment in my hand while I'd been reminiscing. It was tan and dirty, splotched with obvious wear and tear. I shook my head, "You must be mistaken." _It can't be from Sirius,_ I thought, _He… I… why would he…? _None of my thoughts formed complete ideas, let alone sentences. I was numb again, staring in on this person, staring from a bubble, just able to look, not able to help her or tell her anything. Just sit there looking as she stared in amazement, with me safe, tucked inside my bubble where I couldn't be affected. "It can't be from… Sirius…" she said, wistfully, "He's… and why would he…?" the Rosmerta-imposter looked at Tildy, who had an odd look on her face. "Oh, no, you don't think that _I _am a… a …" And suddenly this person and I were one again, and the bubble was gone, nothing softened around the edges, just the hard truth of life. Tildy thought I was a Death Eater! She of all people should know that I wasn't!

     But I didn't get the chance to tell her that. Because right then there was a slam: a door opened. It was the door to the ladies' restroom. And standing there was… _God, no, don't be this cruel. Standing there was Cleo Putnay. Sirius's girlfriend before I had come along. I could still remember James joking about how Sirius always went for "the quirky ones". According to Sirius, the summer of his fifth year, Cleo – formerly just Patricia Faith Putnay – had gone off to Egypt. She'd been a round girl, not fat, but plump, with dimples and slanted eyes that were buried behind her fatty cheeks. She'd been your average Gryffindor, brave, but not brilliant, valiant but not cunning. Sixth year, she'd come back changed. She'd died her once-orangey-yellow hair black, become almost anorexic looking, and replaced her plump body with a stick figure that was so perfect most women would kill for it. She'd also kept insisting her name was Cleopatricia instead of just Patricia. Naturally, Sirius had been interested. And then I'd stolen this Queen's boyfriend. To put it simply: we weren't on good terms._

     Cleo hadn't changed much. She still had the sharp curves and stick figure she'd been so known for during her Hogwarts years, only now Cleo's hair wasn't black, she'd died it a brownish-goldish mix that looked like bronze metal. Her blue eyes were still striking and scary. She had slanted eyes like a serpent, a pointy though small nose and a tan that must've taken weeks. Her cheekbones were even more prominent than they had been at school, giving her the look of a skull that had been painted tan and had on a wig. 

     Overall, she didn't look like one you'd want to mess with. And one of her scarlet fingernails was pointing at me, her perfect-plucked eyebrows narrowed at me. "_You!" she said in a strangled voice, "I __knew it!" her voice was high, and strangled and threatening, "__You freaking **bitch!" She was shaking, her voice going higher and higher, "**__You helped **him escape! **__You – you're a… Death Eater! You're plotting to bring Voldemort back! I bet you're one of those witches that practices magic without a wand!" her eyes flickered around the room, taking everything in. In those eyes I didn't see fear, and I didn't see a little scared girl who was shaking in her boots. I saw hatred and anger. She knew! God, she __knew I wasn't a Death Eater, but she was going to say I was anyway. I looked at Tildy, expecting her to be telling Cleo off, screaming at the top of her lungs that I'd done nothing wrong. But Tildy was just sitting there, her jaw hanging partially open, her eyes expressing shock, like she was too surprised to even move, to even grasp what this vengeful woman was thinking. Cleo still hated me because I had taken Sirius away from her! Only she probably didn't recognize that, she'd probably convinced herself it was some twist in my personality, not the fact that I'd snatched her pre-Azkaban escapee boyfriend._

     "I'm going to the press!" Cleo's eyes glittered with malice, "They'll know just what to make of this! You've been helping Black all along, you Death Eater!" And then she was making her way for the door, forcing it open as she ran into the streets of Hogsmeade, screaming at the top of her lungs that I was a Death Eater. And all I could was stand there, staring, dumbstruck as to what had just happened. 

     And Tildy looked at me. And it was obvious to me that she in no way intended to be like Cleo and believe I was a Death Eater. Just because that would put her in the same boat as the madwoman who'd just been in here. Classified as the same brand as the nutcase who was now screaming and thrashing around Hogsmeade. And that was enough proof for Tildy that I wasn't a Death Eater. When I'd been small, I remembered Tildy telling me what she called the "Wisdoms of Life". One was that if you ever saw an idiot do something; you didn't do it. You didn't question something the idiot questioned, because it was probably right out there in front of them. Tildy was the observer; trying to go through life as best she could, not as a genius or anything, but as a normal, commonsensical human being. And Cleo was the idiot – showing Tidy what not to do. 

     I shook my head, "What… by God…" I looked up at Tildy, wishing for some sort of wisdom to come from her mouth, some sort of misery she was stuck in as well as I. But all she did was laugh.

     Tildy smiled a half smile, looking at me sideways. "Cassarah." I looked at her oddly, that was my middle name. _Rosmerta Cassarah Malfoy. " 'What will be, will be' – derived from the Latin 'que sera, sera'." I looked at her blankly, what did that matter? __What will be, will be. _

     She got a faraway look in her eyes, still smiling slightly. "I remember the Dark Years well," Tildy said, nodding to me, "Better than even you do I'd bet. You remember the letters, the numbers in the paper, the bold, black letters, saying that fifty people had been killed the other night. But you never… you never _saw the people. The people that were no longer people; just corpses, littering the ground, like some gruesome try at décor." She shook her head, looking down at her lap. "No, you never saw that. Or the people that were trying so hard to make all this right – but in relativeity to what You-Know-Who could do; they had no power. You were not one of those people. You did not feel helpless. You say you're helpless. And you are, but in another way. In the way of absolution. Rosmerta, __there is nothing worse than having wings but being unable to fly. There is nothing worse than having magic, yet in the face of a great wizard like You-Know-Who, being unable to so much as push him back a little." Tildy looked at me again, her eyes reflecting what she had seen all those years ago, when she'd been an auror. I just new of the days when she'd make me take over her shift as well; unable to tend to the bar because she was out trying to fend off my family's master. "I worked with Hagrid, the gameskeeper, you know him, certainly. I remember once he said something to me. He said 'what's coming will come; and whatever that is, I'll be there waiting for it'. He said that was what he lived by and what he believed. '__What's coming will come': '__what will be, will be'."_

     _Que sera, sera. No matter what happened, Tildy would be there, standing beside me, as I did whatever it took. "__ 'Que sera, sera'." I said, and Tildy bobbed her head up and down. I couldn't stop Cleo from doing whatever she did. I couldn't have stopped Sirius from becoming a mass-murderer. Because __que sera, sera. What's coming will come. What will be, will be. And the best you can do is to stand there waiting for it._

The End

Author's Notes: The end! Aren't you glad, you won't have to suffer anymore. But – you're wondering – whatever happened to that letter, or to Cleo, or to Rosmerta… or to Sirius! I'm probably going to make a sequel, not told in Rosmerta's POV, though. I'd _love to hear anyone's thoughts on a sequel – which I may or may not do, depending on how busy I am. _


End file.
